Shakey Graves has been a favorite artist of mine for a long time now. His unique style and lyrics have always made his live performances worth the drive. I saw him once before in Mobile, and it was an experience I’ll never forget. When I heard he was coming as close as Nashville, buying tickets became a quick decision. I called my friend Canaan, and after having arranged an early midterm with our professor, the date was set. However being broke college students, we had to address the issue of finding a place to stay. I had used couchsurfing.org once before, and although that involves a story of its own, it was a pleasurable enough experience to use again. I posted our trip plans to couchsurfing and found a host within the week. Seems Shakey is just as popular in Nashville as he is in Mobile. Our couchsurfing host was a young business woman and her roommate who were both new to Nashville. They happened to live just a little walk away from where we would be seeing the show. With gas at almost four dollars a gallon, walking distance was welcome news.  We planned to stay Thursday night with our new couchsurfing friend, and then find a campsite around the area to spend Friday night before heading home on Saturday.

I have always heard that God laughs when we make plans, but had never personally experienced God’s humor in my own life. Looking back however, it is somewhat comical that I thought all that lay ahead of me was a great live show and a fun night in the woods.

We arrived in Nashville around four o’clock Thursday afternoon in enough time to meet our host who had taken a late lunch to allow us to set our things down in her home. I have to admit I was impressed with her bravery in allowing two somewhat shady-looking bearded guys stay in her home. She was outgoing and friendly. We did our best to communicate we were not axe murderers with plans to exercise our talents in the night. We set down our things and laid out our plans for returning later that evening. I had read the entire way up to Nashville that eating hot chicken is something that simply cannot be avoided while in the music city, so I asked our host if she knew of a place we should go. Without a second thought she recommended Prince’s. Unfortunately Prince’s was a distance away from her home and the venue we would be seeing the concert, so we opted instead to visit Party Fowl, a closer restaurant  that was new  to town and claimed to have the best “Nashville-hot” chicken in the city. I have been told that Nashville is the “Hollywood of the South” where all of the talented and good looking flock to try and make it big. After meeting our unbelievably attractive waitress, I became a firm believer in this idiom. We ordered the hot chicken and began what became one of the most tasking dining experiences of my life. Water did not seem to help ease the incredible burning that came with every bite. We held our composure, forced smiles, and complimented the delicious yet almost unbearable chicken that our beautiful, next big Nashville star waitress, had served us. We acted like giddy grade school boys when trying to decide which one of us was going to ask her for her number, but in the end neither of us were brave enough so we left with only full stomachs and burning mouths.

This is where the story starts to become interesting. After leaving our new favorite chicken restaurant, we began the walk to the Mercy Lounge where we would be seeing the show. Nashville’s skyline is much more to look at than what we’re used to in Birmingham, so I was thoroughly impressed with the sights and sounds of the city. After asking a few people on the street if they could help us locate the Mercy Lounge, we saw the sign and started up the small hill leading to the door. It was almost six o-clock and with the doors opening at eight, there were only a handful of people already waiting in line. We took our place in line behind a guy with long hair and a cool leather jacket. We came to find out that everyone in front of us did not have tickets and were hoping that there were some left at the door. Since the doors did not open until eight we had some time to get to know our cool leather jacket friend. His name was Koa, he was from San Francisco and currently hitchhiking across the South. He told us stories of New Orleans and Atlanta and how he would be on a bus headed for D.C. first thing the next morning. We talked for almost an hour and during this time another set of highly attractive Nashville girls had made their way in line directly behind us. Canaan and I both noticed, but did our best to play it cool. Unfortunately after an hour had passed our friend Koa and the people in line ahead of him were told that there would not be any tickets sold at the door. We said our goodbyes to Koa and watched as ten people walked away disappointed. We were then pleasantly surprised to find that we were now first in line, and would be getting in the doors before the big crowd that had slowly gathered behind us.

So now there we were, two weird bearded guys trying to appear as cool as possible while two hip and attractive Nashville girls stood in line right beside us with no one else to talk to. We overhead one of them mention an admiration for a band that I had seen recently, and I seized the opportunity to start up a conversation. The next three hours were ones filled with excitement and joy. Not only because of the incredible music our ears were blessed with by Esme Patterson, Joe Sundell, and Shakey Graves but also because of how cool the two girls we chanced upon standing next to turned out to be. One of them, which I must admit caught my eye more so than the other, is a highly successful blogger with over four million followers on several different social media outlets. So successful in fact, that several major fashion organizations have approached her for her views on all things from Nashville coffee to what  types of outfits to pack for a trip to London. On top of being gorgeous she was also one of the most humble people I have ever met. We talked mostly of music and mutually admired bands, and she was quick to turn the conversation from herself, bragging only on her friend’s talent in photography. I wish I could say we all four went out on the town after the show and it was a beautiful and romantic night but the truth is that we parted ways as soon as the show was over. Canaan and I returned to our host’s home spending most of the night exchanging stories of travel and music with our host and her roommate. I eventually fell asleep on the couch, and though I didn’t know it at the time, the concert girl who fate just happened to place in line behind me and who was still in the back of my mind, would come to have a major impact on my life and cause a realization I won’t soon forget.

After saying our goodbyes to our wonderful host, we decided to hit the road and head to yet another place I had read should not be missed while in the music city, The Nashville Biscuit House. We inhaled mass amounts of biscuits covered in sausage gravy, ham, eggs, and cheese along with everything else sure to stop our hearts at forty-five, drank ten cups of coffee, and attempted to plan out the rest of our day. We decided on a free campsite called Yanahali about an hour south of town, back in the direction we would be heading to get home to Birmingham. After a few thrift stores and a quick pit stop to the home of one of Canaan’s lady friends, we finally hit the road.  Still on a musical high from the night before, we jammed out to Shakey as loud as the car would play it. We began to get close to where we thought the campsite was so I, being a good co-pilot, attempted to pull it up on the GPS. There was a small problem though; it did not have an address. We were headed to 35.537254, -86.966225.

As we got closer, country back road after country back road, we began to realize this place was in the middle of nowhere. The GPS said we were about a half mile away and we had yet to pass a single sign referencing anything about a campground, campsite, or park. We finally arrived at our destination; a small dirt and gravel lot that looked like it was simply there for people to turn around their cars. Sitting in the back of a small pick-up truck with a shotgun in hand and looking rather unwelcomely at us, was a man dressed in all camo. With no other options, we decided to pull up and ask this welcoming man if we were in the right place. He assured us we were and said we could probably just camp right there if we wanted, “just pull up and pop a tent,” he said right before he spit a heavy stream of dark tobacco juice onto the ground. We thanked him kindly and then had a short deliberation amongst ourselves before deciding to find another place to stay. It was not a very hard decision to make.

I remembered reading about a state park that wasn’t too far from where we had originally planned to camp before meeting our friend in camo. We decided whatever it was would be the best decision since it was beginning to get close to sundown. We backtracked a few miles and found the brown road sign we were looking for. We followed the signage for several miles and finally arrived at Henry Horton State Park. We went to where we thought the camp office was, but ended up talking to someone at the ranger station. He informed us we could drive around and pick out any campsite that wasn’t already reserved. Much to our dismay, campsite after campsite, we watched as our options disappeared before our eyes. Every campsite in the park was reserved. It being a Friday night, we realized we had made the poor decision of waiting too long to try and find a place to sleep.

We decided to visit the camp office in hopes that someone had called to cancel, and their little paper sign marking their campsite had just not been removed yet. The lady working the desk informed us that this wasn’t the case, and unfortunately she would not be able to offer us any place to camp within the park that night. We were disappointed; dreading the thought of getting back in the car for another two hour ride into Birmingham. I remembered reading something about a few back-country campsites. We went back inside to ask the desk lady and she informed us that they did in fact have three back-country campsites. She warned that they did not include WiFi, electrical, or water hookups. After assuring her that would not be a problem, she showed us the campsite on the map, but then she remembered that the river along which the trail ran was at an all-time high. She said she would have to radio the ranger and ask if it was okay for us to make the journey into the woods.

We listened with fingers crossed as she relayed to the ranger that she had two young men interested in using one of the back-country sites. He finally responded and said though we would probably end up covered in mud, we could still camp there if we pleased. Relief set in and we were told to drive back over to the campground and speak to the ranger before heading out. The ranger wasn’t hard to find. He was easily six foot six inches tall and probably weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like a tight-end for a professional football team and had one of the coolest tattoos I have ever seen tattooed on his forearm; a massive black tree that wrapped around his whole arm and was probably bigger than my entire torso. He asked if we were the guys interested in the back-country sites and began to pull out his map. He showed us where the trail was flooded and told us that we should be able to hike around it but would probably still end up covered in mud. The campsite we would be staying at was on a bluff next to the river and right beside an observation tower. He said he admired the fact that we were camping the way we were and said that he hadn’t had too many visitors to stay at the back-country sites. I asked about a few of the other trails and if those had any back-country sites on them. He told us that the park had just undergone two million dollars in renovations which included several additions and installing WiFi access to all of the campsites. However since no one ever uses the back-country sites, those were not expanded and the only ones that existed were the three on the flooded river trail. We thanked him for his help, returned to the truck to pack our things, and then set out to find this unused, flooded, and back-country campsite.

We decided to hike along the road to avoid the most flooded parts of the trail and pick it up on down the road where it crossed over. We were hoping to make it to whatever the observation tower was before dark so we could watch the sunset. The roadside was littered with trash but besides that and the occasional car passing, it felt as if we were hiking along a paved trail. We were surrounded by beautiful forest with moss floors, and we couldn’t help but notice how many deer we were scaring. It was pretty incredible to be honest. We must have passed eleven deer along the short three quarters of mile we hiked before reaching the spot we were supposed to pick up the trail. After a short pit stop to explore an old abandoned car in the woods, we finally reached where the trail crossed the road.  We passed through forest and grass fields and I began to feel at home. There is something about being immersed in nature that is just good for the soul. John Muir wrote about it in his journals when he states that “in every walk in nature, one receives far more than he seeks.” This is a phrase I have begun to believe wholeheartedly over the last several years.

We eventually made it to where we could see the river and the ground below up started to become slippery. As much as I hate to admit it, I made the poor decision to try and avoid a muddy section of the trail by choosing a path that was a little closer to the steep bank of the river. I slipped and grabbed a hold of what I thought was a tree but unfortunately turned out to be a massive dead limb and it came along for the ride down the bank hitting me directly in the side of the head. I was more embarrassed than hurt, but I had sustained a small cut on my ear that began to bleed. I was lucky enough to have avoided falling into the actual river. Being men; we wiped the blood off, rubbed some dirt in it, and continued on.

To say that we acted like eight year old boys upon seeing the observation tower would be a huge understatement. This was not an observation tower. It was one big huge treehouse, and we were ecstatic. We sprinted the remaining 30 yards, packs and all, all the way to the foot of the steps that led to the top. Scrambling up the stairs we realized we had arrived just in time to watch the sunset across an expanse of grass as tall as the ranger who sent us out here. It was beautiful; an unexpected blessing. This so called observation tower was practically brand new, built with cedar, and smelled amazing. We took pictures, watched the sun dip below the horizon, and debated sleeping on the floor on our new found treehouse. Once the temperature started dropping we decided it would be best to camp where we could have a fire, so we climbed down and began to set up camp around the base of the tower.

Once we made a fire and had dinner consisting of ramen noodles and Vienna sausages bought from the closest gas station to Herbert Hoover, we sat around the fire and let the beauty of the last 36 wash over us. An owl could be heard “hoo-hooing” in the distance, and I have to admit I couldn’t have been happier. That is of course unless I had a lady friend with me. Someone other than Canaan to share these experiences; to share my life, my hopes and dreams. Being a young adult male my mind drifted to the girl I had met at the concert, and I have to admit, I felt somewhat lonely. I remembered hearing a pastor I admire, Judah Smith, saying one time that prayer is as simple as just telling God where you are, and then thinking about where He is. This is something I have been trying to do over the last several months. I try and tell God where I am, how I am lonely, how I don’t know what my purpose is, what I am supposed to do, or how hard it is sometimes to walk with Him. Then I try and remember His promises and what His word says, that He is good, that He is always with me, that He is the giver of only good things, that He does in fact have a plan for my life, and that nothing happens that isn’t a part of His ultimate plan for my life. As I’m having these thoughts, I remember one of my favorite books, A River Runs Through It, where the author Norman Mclean says “he could feel his life becoming a story.” A story, I thought..  not unlike the one I am experiencing now. Not unlike the one God is currently writing with my life. Another one of my favorite authors and pastors, Erwin McManus, writes in his book Artisan Soul, “creativity is the natural result of spirituality. We were created to create.”  If we are made in the image of the ultimate creator, how can we not be creative in the ways that we live our lives? Sure, not every one of us will be a brilliant painter or the world’s next top chef but what about being creative in the way we live, the way we love, and the way we interact with others? Time on this earth is short. I want to use it to its full potential, to be creative, and to allow God to create with my life the incredible picture that He has already envisioned. My mind drifted back to the girl at the concert. I began to realize that it wasn’t an accident that I met her. It wasn’t an accident that I just so happened to meet a girl who has created something awesome with her life, something beautiful. I think about how I ended up at Henry Horton State Park, how previous plans fell through, and I just happened to end up at a place a ranger admittedly said that no one ever visits; this incredible and beautiful hidden spot that no one knows about.  I think about how I have been praying for God to show me some sort of direction, for Him to reveal a glimpse of what His purpose is for my life, and how nothing happens that isn’t a part of His plan. I don’t think that I love nature, love music, and love writing for no reason at all. I don’t think that those desires and longings exist in my soul by accident. I think they were put there by an ultimate Creator who wants me to create something beautiful with my life. I’m not suggesting this is it, that I’m supposed to post a blog and everything in my life will be some kind of fantasy ride from here on out, but I do know that my soul was set on fire in the woods that night and I needed to tell someone about it. I recalled the famous words of David Frost when our giant park ranger described the great backcountry campsite that “no one ever visits.” As we watched the descending sun paint the sky with various shades of orange, purple, and finally black, I remembered, “two roads diverged in the woods… and the road less traveled made all the difference.” We are not the only college students to see Shakey Graves play, surf a couch, or hike muddy trails to a remote treehouse. But I am certain our weekend journey was less traveled than most, and it made all the difference.